Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

I think I mumbled a reply before I gratefully let sleep draw me back under.

The computer screen blurred before his eyes and Michael pinched the bridge of his nose as if it would somehow relieve the ache in his sinuses. Why did he think switching to night shift was a good idea? It was now 6:00 a.m., well past the end of his shift, and he was only just finishing his report on the homicide he and his partner Davis had ended the night with.

It looked like it would be a rare open-and-shut case.

They’d been called to an apartment in West Roxbury where a seemingly normal twenty-eight-year-old woman had announced she’d shot her boyfriend in the kitchen.

Fuck, it had been a mess.

She’d shot him in the head.

Hours later in the interview room, she’d told Michael and his new partner on the night shift she’d suspected her boyfriend was cheating, he’d confessed when she interrogated him (her words), and she’d lost her temper and shot him in the head with her .380.

She’d been chillingly cool, and Michael didn’t know if it was shock, if there was ultimately more to the story, or if she was a psychopath. He’d arrested her, written the report, and they’d wait to see if forensics corroborated her story.

“Mornin’, Detective,” a bright, cheery voice called.

He looked past his computer and saw the young redheaded administrative assistant smiling at him from the coffee machine. He couldn’t remember her name. Amber or Ashley or something. Giving her a fatigued nod, he turned back to his report and saved it.

“I think she likes you.”

Michael glanced over his shoulder and up. Christ, he was so tired he hadn’t heard anyone approach. Getting his body used to a new shift pattern was harder now than it used to be when he was younger.

Nick Bronson stood at his desk. He and Bronson had come through the academy together.

“You look too fuckin’ awake,” Michael groaned.

Bronson clapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe the redhead will wake you up.”

Michael gave him a look. “She’s too young.”

His friend smirked. “She’s twenty-three.”

“You already checked?”

“She told me.”

“Then you date her.” Michael wanted to date like he wanted a bullet in his head. Sex, on the other hand, would be nice. Very nice, but not with young things working in his office.

Bronson lost his smirk. “Speaking of … can we talk?”

Michael wanted nothing more than to go home, but his friend sounded serious. Nodding, he grabbed his car keys and his jacket and followed Bronson through the office to an empty interview room.

“What’s going on?”

Bronson looked weirdly uncomfortable. He exhaled heavily. “I don’t know how to say this without getting punched in the face.”

Just like that, the weariness started to slide off Michael. Alert, he leaned against the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “Spit it out, whatever it is.”

“I’m dating Kiersten.”

For a moment, Michael thought he’d misheard. “I’m really fuckin’ tired this morning so you’ll need to repeat that because I thought I heard you say you’re dating my soon-to-be ex-wife.”

Bronson winced. “That’s what I said.”

“Are you shittin’ me?”

“Look, man, I didn’t expect it to happen. Okay? We bumped into each other two months ago—you guys had decided to separate for good. It wasn’t a date at first. We were just hanging out, talking about our divorces.” His expression turned apologetic. “I care about her, Mike. And Kiersten feels the same way. But I wanted you to find out from me before we go public with it.”